


home coming

by synecdochic



Series: take these broken wings [9]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: (...kind of), Imported, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-31
Updated: 2009-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:43:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synecdochic/pseuds/synecdochic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How to reclaim your sex life after you had to use it for the mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	home coming

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally [posted](http://synecdochic.dreamwidth.org/317421.html?thread=14232045#t14232045) 2009-03-31 as part of the inaugural Dreamwidth comment porn meme.)
> 
> The "rape recovery" tag isn't at all accurate, but there's kind of a dearth of "processing how you feel about sex that you didn't really want to be having but that you consented to for tactical reasons and to help build your cover" tags, so it's probably close enough?
> 
> Takes place after _Howling_ , somewhere parallel to _Roll With It_.

Can't fuck in the bed anymore. _Can_ , but won't. 

The snake would fuck him anywhere the snake (snakes) wanted to fuck him. In the soul-sucking Ikea apartment, across the couch, in the kitchen, in the shower. In the faux-luxury of the penthouse, on the living room floor, in the sunken whirlpool tub. In the rooftop garden. In the stairwell of the Hotel-fucking-California. 

Once, and once only, in the snake's own office, face pushed up against opaqued glass, middle of the day with the noise of industry going on just beyond that one thin barrier, fighting to keep his voice down, fighting to keep his hands pressed up against the glass and not wrapped around the snake's neck. He'd gone back to his desk in the Happy Hacker Haven afterwards feeling wet and used and filthy, bruised in ways that don't ever show, and he'd had to smile and pretend it had been everything he wanted, pretend it had been hot and fast and electric. A whole afternoon sitting in his Aeron chair, the snake's leavings drying against his skin, the treated cotton of his boxers refusing to dry quickly enough. (Immediately wouldn't have been quickly enough.)

But the snake always came back to the bed in the end.

Hard and fast or hot and slow, demanding, _controlling_ , and he'd smiled and lied with his voice, with his face, with every inch and line of the body he'd learned to stop listening to since all it was doing was shouting warnings. Pretty boy, pretty toy, one that would do to swell a progress, start a scene or two; never hinting, never showing there was something behind his eyes other than a brutal dedication, a knife-edge mind sharpened against the snake's ambition. A tool, waiting (wanting) to be used.

The snake never remembered that a well-honed tool will turn on its master if it isn't handled with care. Or maybe centuries of casting kine had taught it that humans don't think, can't _matter_ , and it's a lesson he would have enjoyed reminding the snake about the truth behind, if the lessoning wouldn't have come at such a high cost.

Mitchell doesn't say a word. Not when he pulls away in their shared bed, saying (without saying, the way they've always said things best) _not here, not now. Not like this._ Mitchell's a paragon of fucking understanding, all oh-I-know and whatever-you-need, willing to wait, willing to _take things slowly_ , and it reassures him and it fucking pisses him off all at once.

He isn't fucking _broken_. He's got a snake's handprints burned into his body's kinaesthetic record and a snake's outline circumscribing his every move, he's got a snake's tender mercies and ministrations haunting the hallways of his memory, but it isn't the first time a snake has fucked him (up, over, everything in between) and he'd pray to everything he knows isn't listening that it'll be the last, but he won't lose sleep over spilled milk if it isn't. And if there's a part of him (a part he'd rather not own) whispering _methinks the gentleman doth --_ , if there's a part of him reminding him about wishes and horses and needing to _face your shit_ instead of letting beggars ride, there's a bigger part of him that knows all about magical thinking and laws of contagion ( _thank you Daniel_ ) and the simpler truth, truth above all, truth he's learned to live by: _you are what you make yourself_.

He will not make himself a victim.

So he waits until Mitchell's settled in the kitchen, tucked into the padded booth (the one he built with his own two hands, Mitchell watching with the smile on his lips hidden behind the beer bottle held against them, back when those hands could still build and hadn't yet been reminded of how easy it is to tear down and destroy) and frowning over his laptop (the lines in Mitchell's forehead beloved, familiar), and that's when he makes his move. One knee on the cushion, next to Mitchell's thigh: a pivot, an anchor. The other, he swings up and over, until he's straddling Mitchell's thighs, pressed against Mitchell, edge of the table digging into his kidneys, not painful, just _there_. 

Keeps his weight on his knees. (There are things Mitchell will bear up under and things Mitchell will fold for, and Mitchell might not know the difference, even now, but he _does_.) But it's a simple matter to grind his dick up against Mitchell's, no matter how awkwardly he has to twist to do it, and the look on Mitchell's face when Mitchell realizes he's hard behind his thin cotton sweatpants is half a step shy of the most gratifying look he's ever gotten out of the man.

"I --" Mitchell says.

He cuts Mitchell off before Mitchell can say anything more, before Mitchell can try to be _sensitive_ or understanding or fucking _kind_ , because he's not in the mood for kindness. Been too fucking long since he's seen it, and his kindnesses have always been another's cruelties anyway. Instead, he fits his mouth against Mitchell's, tongue against tongue, teeth against lip, breathing Mitchell's air and trying to inhale away every last one of Mitchell's doubts.

He's breathing hard when he breaks the kiss. So's Mitchell.

"You're going to touch me," he says, and even he can hear his voice: ragged, edged. Half demand, half warning. Mitchell's not going to like the sound of it, and sure enough, there's that frown line again, the one that always presages Mitchell putting his fucking foot down and deciding they need to talk about their fucking _feelings_ , so he grabs Mitchell's hand and presses the heel of Mitchell's palm against his dick, pushing up into Mitchell's touch, saying _like this, harder, yes_. 

Saying _I need_.

Mitchell's always been fucking incredible at answering someone else's need.

The little frown's still there, but he makes himself ignore it, makes himself not _see_ it, with the same tangible force of will he's been using for the past seven months. "Like this," he says, folding his hand over Mitchell's, wrapping both their hands together around his dick, and the scrape of cotton against the head of his dick would hurt so much more if he wasn't already leaking wet. 

There's a part of him that _knows_ this touch, the same part of him he buried so deeply for so long, the same part of him he _had_ to bury in order to keep the rest of him from being buried underneath it. That touch falls against the patterns of his nerves like ice on a burn, like walking into an air-conditioned building on a scorcher of a day, and he'd take the time to wonder why all of his metaphors are cold and chill but he isn't interested in knowing. 

He's too busy letting Mitchell touch him, _feeling_ Mitchell touch him, feeling the way Mitchell's wrist hesitates on the downstroke and the way Mitchell's fingers flutter at the crest. Too busy feeling the way the soft worn cotton rubs against his dickhead, spreading dampness as their linked hands shift the cloth togther, and it's the first fucking time in seven months and more that he _wants_ to feel. 

He's touched Mitchell since he came home to go no more a-roving, he's let Mitchell touch him, but this is here, this is now. This is Mitchell's hand on his dick, Mitchell's other hand sliding up underneath the edge of his tank top to thumb at a nipple; this is the way he can feel the calluses on Mitchell's hands, the heat and bedrock strength of Mitchell's thighs underneath his own trembling from the strain of holding him upright. This is the way Mitchell leans forward, forehead coming to rest against his own, and breathes out: hard, sharp, resigned.

"Say when," Mitchell says, hope and love and despair all knotted together so tightly it'd take a miracle to unbind them, and he lets his hand fall away from where it's holding Mitchell's hand against him, puts both his hands against Mitchell instead. He fits his palms into the nook beneath Mitchell's collarbone, curls his fingertips over the curve of Mitchell's shoulders, which have always been strong enough to carry the weight, strong enough to carry the world. Closes his eyes and bites his lip and lets himself _feel_ the way Mitchell slides a hand beneath his waistband, the way Mitchell pushes aside what's come between them, the way Mitchell closes strong fingers around his dick and _squeezes_ , just like that, just the way he likes it, the way he _wants_ it, the way that's always been a balm and a blessing and a transcendent thread of joy; familiar, beloved, _right_ , right after so long, right after such wrongness --

\-- and this, this is theirs, this is _his_ , and he _will not_ fucking let the snake keep it.


End file.
